The Alternate Universe

by The Alternate Universe [MM] (epub)

  He ran his finger down the spine and pulled the book from the shelf. Unlike his father’s copy, the pages of this edition were yellowed and, as he thumbed through them, gave off the smell of mildew. The book clearly hadn’t been opened in years, maybe decades.

  He was surprised to find that this copy was also autographed: Einstein’s bluish signature was in virtually the exact same place it had been in his dad’s copy. Maybe signed copies weren’t so rare after all, or maybe someone had simply used a signature stamp. Further down the page was a handwritten inscription:

  Cows, lambs and ungulate deer

  eat honorable earth’s large pastures.

  And under that a signature:

  Jonathan Graham Altide.

  He was so surprised he almost dropped the book. Not only was it his father’s name, but it was his handwriting. Claude’s head felt light, his legs weak, his hands clammy. He closed his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts. The room was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.

  When he opened his eyes, the name was still there. He ran his finger over his dad’s inscription, which looked as old as the book itself, written in what appeared to be the ink of an old-fashioned fountain pen. However, there was no mistaking the message in the inscription. Of course, maybe this was all a weird coincidence, and maybe there was no hidden message and there had once been someone else named Jonathan Graham Altide who’d signed his name in the book.

  But Claude doubted such coincidences were possible, especially since he saw the hidden message so clearly. Taking the first letter of each of the words, the message screamed from the page:

  Claude help

  It was obvious now. The note from the morning used the same simple code. He returned to the desk and sat down, reaching for a pen as his eyes once again scanned his father’s words.

  claude: again, un-timely

  interference; over night call at last lousy minute; emergency meeting; sorry! away ‘til—unknown; really not

  opportune; please eat nicely son; stay at finley—eek! take elegant Donna my best. always, dad

  Taking the first letter of every word, he wrote on the same piece of paper:

  Cautioncallmemsaturnopenssafetedmbad.

  Then he inserted slashes:

  Caution/call/memsaturn/opens/safe/ted/m/bad.

  He played with the word memsaturn, scribbling various breakdowns:

  Mem Saturn

  Me MS At Urn

  Me M Sat Urn

  Was it Latin? Combined with the previous word, it might mean call me, but then what was msaturn?

  He was certain ted m referred to his stepfather, but the fact that Ted Millstone was bad was hardly news, although it was unusual for his dad to highlight the fact. And call me wasn’t much help. He’d called several times, but his dad hadn’t answered. And where was he supposed to find a safe?

  He stared at memsaturn until it occurred to him that Jonathan might have meant call mem, with mem referring to the initials of his friend, Maya Espinoza-Martinez. That left saturn, or more specifically, saturn opens safe, which sounded like a code within a code.

  He looked around to reassure himself that he was alone. A few minutes ago, he was eager for Jay’s company; now he needed a bit more time to figure this out. Did his dad really need help? The notes, his father’s unexpected trip, and the fact that he wasn’t answering his cell all suggested that something was genuinely wrong.

  Maya would hopefully reassure him that his dad was fine and that the notes were mistakes or coincidences or practical jokes.

  Fingers trembling, he opened his phone, took a few deep breaths, and dialed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What Maya Knows

  Normally, Maya would have prepared a meticulous dinner of fresh produce, its mix of fiber, protein, and carbohydrates perfectly matching her nutritional needs, at least according to the thermo-glucose bracelet on her wrist.

  But tonight she was too tired to do anything more than heat a bag of High Fiber Veg-Medley and park herself in front of the TV, where she tried to lose herself in the news: gold at $7,000 an ounce, the Senate debating Haitian statehood, APU’s Bill Watson running for president.

  Just as she started to relax, shaky footage of yesterday’s tornado filled the screen.

  “Halo,” she muttered. She’d watched the same moving picture at least 100 times, applying every tool in the lab in an attempt to understand it. It was the third tornado in a month, and, like the other two, had erupted without apparent cause.

  Of course, weather was unpredictable despite science’s best attempts to understand it. But these tornadoes defied all the rules. All three had appeared within a 20-mile radius under conditions that the most sophisticated models couldn’t explain. Their height-to-wind-speed ratio was off kilter. Their funnels were strangely shaped, fat on top and bottom but unusually thin in the middle, as if connected by a thread. But the strangest thing of all was that they didn’t move randomly but followed the street grid, their straight-line motion punctuated by occasional right-angle turns.

  In one section of the tape, which had been recorded by a dirigible over Vita-Light High School, it looked as if the tornado had stopped at an intersection, like a cautious horseman looking both ways before crossing. She’d watched the scene again and again, growing more and more frustrated as every measure she applied—wind speed, barometric pressure, contour mapping, temperature differential—failed to explain the funnel’s behavior.

  The last thing she wanted to do was think more about the tornadoes, but the TV footage had set her mind in motion. She needed a new perspective, fresh input, but the colleagues in her department were just as baffled as she was, and the person whose advice she most trusted hadn’t responded to her increasingly frustrated messages for help. But that was no surprise. Jonathan was famous for losing track of time, failing to meet deadlines, and not returning calls.

  She took a long sip from the Veg-Medley straw. The TV now showed images of a small group of people on a wharf; the newscaster was saying something about a protest, but her eyes had drifted to the magnetic oscillator leaning against the screen. One of Jonathan’s many odd-ball inventions, the oscillator looked like a small, chrome-plated rifle. He’d given it to her for her birthday, pulling it from behind his back the way another man might have unveiled a bouquet.

  He’d demonstrated how it attracted and repelled objects, making a pen zoom from one end of the room to another. Although she didn’t have much use for it herself, she’d appreciated that someone stuck in a bed or mobilechair might find the device handy.

  Just as much as she loved the fact that he was capable of inventing something with practical applications, she hated the fact that he wasted so much energy pursuing fantasies.

  His most recent obsession was the most outlandish yet. He’d given her a stack of calculations that he claimed proved that one could build what he’d called a time particulator, which would allow a person to step from one time and place to a distant time and place as easily as walking through a door. She agreed to double-check his work, confident she’d find a flaw, but she wondered now if she’d even bother. Who cared about bending time in a multi-verse when there were more urgent problems—like misbehaving tornadoes—to tackle? The fact he’d ignored her calls all day didn’t exactly increase her desire to be helpful.

  Her cell rang and she jumped, nearly dropping the Veg-Medley. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  “Jonathan! Where’ve you been?” She felt both relieved and angry.

  “Is this… um, Maya?”

  “Very funny,” she said, even as she realized something was amiss.

  “Um, it’s Claude. Jonathan’s son.”

  Her heart started beating wildly. Claude had never called her before. “Claude? Oh gosh. Sorry! I thought… I mean. I never noticed how you guys sound so much alike.” She struggled to sit up straight, as if he could see her slouching. “What’s g
oing on? Is everything OK?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. That’s why I’m calling.”

  A chill galloped up her spine. “Go on,” she said with dread.

  “Something’s happened to Dad.”

  “Oh profit. What?” She lost no time in picturing worst-case scenarios: Jonathan dead of a heart attack, or with a broken spine after being thrown from his horse, or electrocuted during an experiment in his basement.

  “This is going to sound crazy, but I’m not sure,” he said.

  “I… I don’t understand. Is he OK?” she said. She leaned forward, placing the Veg-Medley on the ground and closing her eyes. When she was nervous, her senses came alive, like a lioness on a hunt. She pressed the cell to her ear, dialing the volume button to high; she wanted to hear every sound, every wisp of breath.

  “Yes. I guess. Just confused.”

  “Is he hurt?” she asked gently. It occurred to her that maybe Claude was pranking her, following through on a schoolboy dare, but she doubted it, sensing by his tone and awkward pauses that he was genuinely worried.

  “I honestly don’t know. The thing is, he might be fine or he might be in trouble. He’s supposed to be at a meeting, right?”

  “Meeting?” She didn’t remember anything about a meeting, but at least that might explain why he hadn’t returned her calls. “I don’t know. He’s not with you?”

  “No. He left a note saying he had to go to a meeting.”

  “Can’t you reach him?”

  “No. And the note had a hidden message that said to get in touch with you.”

  “Hidden message?”

  “He leaves me coded messages. You know, for fun. Like a puzzle.”

  “Really?” She could easily turn teary at the thought of Jonathan leaving Claude coded notes. Why hadn’t he ever mentioned them? It was so sweet. “So what does the hidden message say?”

  He paused. “It’s just that I found something else. It’s hard to explain.”

  Her heart started beating so loudly that she felt certain he could hear it. She pictured Claude rummaging through the mess in Jonathan’s basement lab and finding… what? Evidence that Jonathan was spying for the Chinese? Drugs? A bomb? Each seemed equally ridiculous.

  “Do you want to meet so you can show me?”

  “Yeah. That’d be good.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. Great.” He sounded relieved.

  “Why don’t I come to you? I can be at your house in 45 minutes.”

  “It’s quicker to meet in the middle. At Jack’s Cabana in half an hour?”

  “OK.”

  ccccc

  Claude strode across the restaurant, a lanky arm clutching something to his chest, the other confidently signaling the waitress. “Coffee, black,” he said.

  Maya was surprised by how mature he seemed. She’d seen him two weeks earlier when he’d looked like an ordinary teenager, slouched and with eyes rolling at every other word out of Jonathan’s mouth. Tonight he looked much older, helped in no small part by his clothes—a close-fitting suit of shimmering fabric out of the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  He slid into the booth, his grave expression dispelling any doubt she’d had about his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “Of course.” She wanted to pat his hand reassuringly but knew he’d find it condescending or strange.

  He placed the book he’d been holding on the table and stared at it, eyebrows furrowed, lips curved with worry.

  “Is this the thing you had trouble explaining over the phone?” she asked.

  He nodded, and she felt relieved. It wasn’t drugs or a weapon or, for that matter, anything that looked remotely dangerous.

  “May I?” she asked, pointing at the book.

  But Claude didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead, he was looking around the restaurant. They were sitting at least three tables from the nearest customer. “I always find this place so creepy,” he said.

  Jack’s Cabana was decorated to look like a canteen from Brazil, complete with synthetic dirt floor and rough plank walls. There were also screens behind the paneling, so that between the cracks and gaps in the planks, customers saw moving images of a small village: peasants in straw hats carting barrows of grain, children running down the street, an occasional stray dog rooting in the dirt for a scrap of food, all of which gave way every 10 minutes to a brief flash of napalm before starting over in an endless loop.

  “Me too,” Maya said.

  Claude smiled grimly as he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is the note Dad left this morning.”

  She unfolded it and placed it on the table, and Claude explained how he’d deciphered everything except for the word “saturn.” When he was done with his explanation, she repeated the word “saturn” several times, trying to unravel its secret.

  “Here you go, son,” the waitress said, depositing a mug of black coffee with a slosh on the formica. Her skin was bright red, thanks to her faux-derm bracelet, and her large hands were festooned with black skull rings.

  “I’ll have a guava pie,” Maya said. She was normally meticulous about her diet, carefully monitoring her nutritional intake and religiously avoiding a long list of dangers, including sugar. But she was too stressed to maintain discipline.

  “You got it,” the server said, nodding. Her face was flat and stiff, the victim of what Maya guessed was dime-store derma surgery.

  As soon as she stepped away, Claude pushed the Einstein book across the table. She lifted it up carefully. It looked similar to the book Jonathan had shown her yesterday, only this copy was more worn. She examined its back and front before opening it and reading the inscription. Claude watched intently as she read what was—apart from the Einstein signature—clearly Jonathan’s writing. “OK,” she said, unsure what to make of it.

  “You gave it to him, right?”

  “This book?” She glanced at it again. “No. No, I didn’t. He asked me the same thing, only he had a less beat-up copy.”

  “The book yesterday was in better condition, right?”

  She nodded.

  “String together the first letter of each word in what Dad wrote,” Claude said.

  “C.L.A… Claude… H.E. … Help,” she said slowly and softly. “Claude help.” She looked up at Claude whose expression indicated he was as scared as she suddenly felt. “Don’t worry. It’s probably nothing,” she said reflexively. “It’s a joke or something.”

  “You think?” he asked hopefully.

  She wanted to make him feel better but also didn’t want to lie. She placed her hand over his and said, “The truth is I’m not sure what it means. Maybe it’s a puzzle hidden in a puzzle. So let’s not jump to conclusions. If we go step by step, we’ll figure it out.”

  Claude slipped his hand away. “There’s something else you should know,” he said gravely.

  “What?”

  “After I found the book and called you, I sort of got lost—in the house, I mean. It’s a mansion and crazy huge.”

  “I know.”

  “I ended up in a weird corridor I’d never seen before. I was going to turn around but I heard my stepfather, so I slipped into a room so he couldn’t see me, and he went by and walked into the next room. Then I heard him say my name. Scheisse. I’d thought he’d seen me. But that wasn’t it. He was talking about me. So I tiptoed over. I could see him in a reflection of a mirror, but since I was in the dark, he couldn’t see me.”

  “Who was he talking to?”

  “Eric Watson.”

  “As in the Watsons? As in All Products United?”

  “Exactly. Eric’s my age. He’s Bill Watson’s son, and he’s a jerk. And why the Hades is he talking to my stepfather? I mean, for a second, I think they’re having an affair. Crazy, right? But I mean, there’s a huge party going on celebrating Eric’s dad, and they’ve wandered off for a mashup; except, of course, it’s not a mashup. Oh, sorry if I’m too crude.”

&nb
sp; She smiled. She was used to worse from her students. “Not a problem. Go on.”

  “Yeah. Well. So I hear Eric say something like, ‘If you can just tell me why,’ and Ted says, ‘Please do as you’re told,’ but Eric’s not giving up, and they go back and forth, only Ted isn’t the big corkhole he usually is. He’s polite, deferential, I guess because Eric is the son of his boss. And finally, Eric says, ‘Look, Jayesh is doing everything I’ve told him to do. He’s got Claude wrapped around his finger. But it’s hard for me to make him really believe that this is important if I don’t know the real reason.’ ”

  “Jayesh?” Maya asked, confused.

  Claude had been rushing through the story, but now he slowed down. “He’s sort of my boyfriend, or was. Not really. We just kind of started dating.” He flushed and looked away. He was clearly hurt and angry.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing deep or serious, but it could have been. I mean, I like Jayesh—liked him…” He paused, gathering himself. “The point is that I was surprised Eric even knew about Jayesh and me. And then to hear him say that Jayesh had me wrapped around his finger? It’s a bunch of kuhscheisse.”

  “Better keep your voice down, although I understand perfectly why you’re mad. I’d be furious—and hurt.”

  “Here you go, m’dam,” the waitress said, dropping a waxy looking guava pie on the table with a thud.

  “Thanks,” Maya said.

  Claude eyed the red woman warily until she was out of earshot. “So Millstone says, ‘Just make sure your friend knows that if he doesn’t keep Claude distracted for at least another day, his parents can kiss their company, their Swiss account, and their Arabian stallions good-bye.’ And Eric says, ‘He knows. Believe me. But what do you need another day for? What’s going on?’